Happy St George's Day
by Kitty-Kat Allie
Summary: A quick drabbling oneshot of SpUKking goodness. No smut, but innuendos aplenty. A pleasant surprise one shining April day reminds England not only of his unofficial birthday, but of a long-lost love affair he forgot he missed.


_There really is NO PLOT for this. Just quick, fun SpUKking. I'm a Spamano/UKUS-er myself, but SpUK is just to hawt not to dabble in occasionally. Ignore historical inaccuracies and enjoy the sweet, fluffy, and sexy about to happen. Oh, Spain, you are too irresistible. _

_Also, Iggy forgot the significance of his own "birthday" to reflect the fact it's not a nationally designated holiday. I double-checked. It is, in fact, NOT an official holiday._

_._

Happy St. George's Day

England was looking over yet another document his boss had sent him, weary, bored, and desperately in need for some tea. _One more_, he promised himself. About halfway through, he jerked upright as his phone rang shrilly. Grumbling in irritation, he snagged the phone and searched for his now lost place.

"_Mi amigo_, I have a surprise for you!" sang a stupidly cheerful voice on the other side of the line.

Surprise was an understatement. Astonishment was, too. There was no good enough vocabulary word to express his shock properly.

"Sp-Sp-_Spain_?" England squeaked. The last he heard, the Spaniard was off gallivanting with that bloody frog and in-denial-so-hard-he-still-existed-Prussian.

"_Si_, it is me!"

"It is I," England corrected automatically.

"Well, of course I know it's you, _mi carino_, I called you," Spain replied, puzzled. England felt his ears burn. Spain hadn't used that endearment in years.

"N-Never mind. What the bloody hell do you want?"

"I told you! I have a surprise for you! Silly _Inglaterra_," Spain chortled. England ignored the shivers down his spine with little success.

"If the surprise was the phone call, then it's been received. Thank you very much, but I have work to fin-"

"Tch, you really think this is it? Don't you know what day it is?"

"It's April 23rd. I'm not a bloody idiot, unlike _some_ people," he retorted waspishly. He scowled further as Spain laughed again.

"I dunno. If you forgot what today was and _I _didn't, who's stupider, me or you, _mi carino_?"

"Your English is atrocious," England muttered irritably. "It's not my job to remember every stupid holiday you come up with- _Stop laughing, you wanker!_"

"Ah, but it's so funny. C'mon, just come outside, Iggy~ _Por favor, mi carino_?"

"Wh-N- Have you been spending time with Kiku? That is a ridiculous nickname-"

"C'_mon_, come outside~" Spain wheedled, once again interrupting him. England slowly got up, his curiosity getting the better of him. He wasn't about to admit, though.

"I have work to do, slacker. And why are you calling me that accursed Spanish word. You haven't called me that since the 16th century," England mumbled, not realized how rough his voice became.

"Ah, _lo siento_, I didn't mean to upset you. We stopped being such good… friends so long ago. I have missed you, though, _mi carino_," Spain said softly, regretfully.

"Bu-I- I _didn't mean it that way, you bugger,_" England stammered. Just why, after so many years of war and then utter apathy towards one another, was Spain now acting like this? Like the past centuries had never come between them? It was unnerving… unsettling… breathtaking. England shook his head briskly.

"We make such good enemies, fusososo~ I forgot how to be friends. But I never forgot… I never forgot being your lover, _Inglaterra._"

The smooth, rich drawl, heavily accented and sliding over the English words like he tasted each letter, each sound; it drove England crazy. It brought to mind _exactly_ what Spain wanted him to remember. Nights of hidden ecstasy in stifling tents in the middle of war they both fought against France. Nights of whispered words, intertwined English and Spanish on gasping breaths. Nights of light skin on dark, gold and dark brown hair matted and dark with sweat, two fevered pairs of green eyes, locked and unable to look away.

England rubbed his face, feeling dizzy and disoriented. How did so much passion lead to so much hate, so many years of distance unable to be breached? Yet, in a stupid, _stupid_ way it made so much sense.

"I don't want to talk about that, Spain," England murmured, forcing his footsteps to the door and whatever package Spain had sent him.

"I do. I've been wanting to for years, _mi carino_. I've missed your hands on me-" _Oh God, don't do this _"the feel of your lips, the taste of your skin" _he's really going to, with _that_ voice _"the way we moved together. Do you remember, _Inglaterra?_"

England moaned softly, half in want, half in exasperation. "What are you up to, bastard," he demanded, unable voice it as a question.

"I want to give you a surprise you'll enjoy. It's your birthday,_ mi amor_," Spain informed him with that sexy, husky chuckle.

"What the deuce are you talking about?" England snapped, frustration mounting for _multiple _reasons. "Did you call me up just to bloody tease me? If so, I am going to punch your blasted face in the next time I see you."

He swung open the door and froze, eyes widening in surprise. His phone fell from his ear, slipping through his fingers to the floor.

"Why is it, _mi amor,_ that your people celebrate your birthday more than you?" Spain asked, smiling widely.

England blinked, unable to believe his eyes. The idiot was supposed to be gadding about the Continent, not standing on his front stoop. Standing there, dressed in bright crimson silk that glowed against his dark skin, black pants covering legs that stretched on forever, and a grin that would've melted a glacier. In his outstretched hand, a perfect red rose waved in the gentle spring breeze. Of all the days for it to be sunny, when the country was normally so grey and damp, it had to be the day Spain was there. It was as though the sunshine had followed him and lit up the dreary little island, exposing everything beautiful about it. Wide, disbelieving eyes stared at that single, red bloom and then up into Spain's joyously smiling face as the Spaniard clicked his cell phone shut and shoved it in his pocket.

"S-Spain?"

"A red rose for St. George, right? I remembered," Spain said, stepping neatly into the doorway, almost on England's toes and causing the smaller man to crane up his neck.

"W-we… even _then_, we weren't very good friends, Spain. I don't understand what you're trying to do," England protested, backing away quickly. Spain followed and closed the door behind him. England frowned. "Now, see here, I did _not_ invite you in!"

"I came in anyway," Spain shrugged. England scowled. "Don't you want your present?" He held up the rose again. Slowly, still frowning irritably, he plucked the rose from Spain's grasp.

"Fine, I have it! Now, if you would be so kind, _leave_. I don't have time or energy to deal with your games, Spain," England snapped, turning on his heel.

"I do not play a game with you, _mi amor_. I meant what I said."

England paused, his knuckles white as he clenched the rose tightly. He jumped, startled, as a large dark hand wrapped around his.

"If you hold it any tighter, you'll break it," Spain murmured, warm breath on England's ear.

"Oh, bloody hell," England muttered. He felt Spain's lips move up to a smile, brushing the curve of his ear.

He tossed the rose unto the nearby table where his bowl full of change and keys rested. Then, he twisted around and grabbed Spain's narrow hips. A quick push of his feet and he was standing on his toes, pressing his lips against Spain's smiling mouth. Spain's hands cupped the back of England's head, long, slender fingers tangling in short, blond hair. A hum of satisfaction followed by a gentle nudging of tongue on lips. And they were kissing and touching greedily, tugging at clothing and nipping at lips and skin. So long, it had been so damn long.

They barely made it to bedroom and they didn't leave it the entire day and night.

It was probably one of the best birthday surprises England had ever had and he hoped for a whole lot more to come.


End file.
